I would take a whisper (if that's all you had to give)
by ibuzoo
Summary: "What's your name?", she murmurs again and rests her hand at his nape, tugs at his black strains until he looks up, lips hovering over hers and he smirks, wide and dangerous, almost pestilent and she leans down, ravishes his mouth until he pushes her back and her spine hits the sand.


**I would take a whisper (if that's all you had to give)**

**Prompt:** Summer

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Modern AU / Beach AU / Holiday AU

**Word count:** 1040

**A/N:** I guess this is the first universe in which Harry and Ron don't end up death or betrayed and I think that's already a premiere for me! Also I'm glad once I finally finish the last prompts so I don't have to bother about them anymore - 12 more to go (;

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><p><strong>o.<strong>

She repeats his name, each time different and she watches as the waves wash it away.

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

It's starts at an ice cream parlour near the beach, the hottest day during summer while the sun radiates unyielding at the front and thin droplets of sweat catch at Hermione's nape, run down between her shoulder blades. The heat clings to her pores like a second skin and she brushes some stray strands that fell free from her bun behind her ear, sways her hips to the rhythm of some catchy summer song that blasts through the room. She ignores Ron's eyes and how they room over the light fabric of her white bandeau dress while she orders an Orange Mango Smoothie and waits for the waiter to scrawl her name across one of the transparent cups.

They're leaving the parlour five minutes later and Harry's leading the way while he talks about Ginny all the time and Hermione doesn't listen, enjoys the frozen liquid on her tongue when suddenly Ron turns around, knocks her off her feet.

She staggers for a second and the cup slips out of her fingers, ends up on some dark posh designer jeans. The orange mess soaks through the fabric and at a girl with dark red lipstick and beautiful black curls suddenly starts to shriek, high pitched and clearly repulsed but all Hermione can see are the bright grey eyes of the man now wearing ruined trousers which glimmer with something dangerous, something peril that draws her in.

_(far away the waves crash against the shore)_

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

"What's your name?", she asks three days later when she's on her way back to the holiday rental that she shares with Harry and Ron.

The air in Bredene is wet and warm and she walks with bare feet in the sand, enjoys the way grains of sand catch between her toes. Her eyes are fixed on Tom's aviators but all she sees is her own reflection in the glasses.

"What's yours?", he retaliates after a second and she observes the way the golden-orange shine of the sun casts dark red and gilded shadows over his skin - almost like a mythological god, some mixture between Apollo and Hades.

"Hermione", her voice is challenging, daring and her laughter rings in his ears.

A smirk appears on his lips, dark and inviting before he replies amused, almost exhilarated, "Menelaus, Shakespeare or the Asteroid?"

_(the waves nearly swallow his voice but she hears, listens, stops)_

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><p><strong>iii.<strong>

When she was younger her mother always told her that heartbeats are supposed to sound like the beating of a drum, the cadence of a poem, the sound of tender lips and soft kisses.

When she was younger her father always told her that heartbeats are supposed to sound like shattering glass, dashingly broken, claw marks on delicate flesh.

Why, if that's the case, is it that with Tom her heartbeats sound like the thrumming rhythm of waves that break against the cliffs, flooding the shores to wash everything away?

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><p><strong>iv.<strong>

She sits cross-legged in the sand, feels the grains clinging to her wet ankles and she watches the way the sea plays at her feet, retreats and washes reminders away, again and again. A couple of mussels lie on her lap, all different kinds of colours but most of them are rose and white, innocent, almost chaste and she brushes crusted dirt of the shells, cleans them with her fingers and salty seawater as good as she can.

The rigid flames of the summer sun burn down and it blinds her, makes her squint her eyes until Tom pushes his aviators up her nose, leaves wet kisses on her shoulder. She turns around and wonders what he sees behind these glasses, if he thinks about her eyes the same amount of time as she loses herself in his grey orbs that are speckled with steel blue and artichoke green as soon as sunlight brightens them up.

"What's your name?", she murmurs again and rests her hand at his nape, tugs at his black strains until he looks up, lips hovering over hers and he smirks, wide and dangerous, almost pestilent and she leans down, ravishes his mouth until he pushes her back and her spine hits the sand.

The water washes around them and she feels like flying, feels like drowning and it doesn't care because Tom is the sky, Tom is the sea, Tom, Tom, Tom.

_(the waves break on the cliffs and they sing his name over and over again)_

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

The shells lie clean and pedantic on her windowsill, all of them sorted by colour and sometimes at night she takes one, brings it to her ear and listens to the waves promise her a sunrise along the horizon, whisper of something dangerously beautiful.

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><p><strong>vi.<strong>

It's the last day of their holidays and the bonfire crackles loudly in unison with the soft drift of whitecaps near the seacoast.

Tom's jumper is warm and cozy on her skin and she buries her nose deep in the softness of the fabric, breathes in his aftershave and cologne which leave a tingling sensation alongside the salty air inside of her nostrils. The sun just sets while different kinds of blue and violet cast shadows on their frames and she watches interested when little crumbs of ash and ember rain down on the golden sand.

Her head leans at his shoulder and she takes his hand, traces the veins from his wrist watch to the tip of his fingers, whispers, "So will you tell me your real name? Or shall I just keep calling you ‚He-who-must-not-be-named?'" It's half a joke and it half isn't and she can almost see the way his lips curl up at the end, how he sneers at her lack of knowledge on this part but a second later his lips grace her ear, chapped and cold when he murmurs, dark, dangerous, "It's Tom."

_'Tom'_, she thinks and closes her eyes, listens to the waves, to the fire, to his heartbeat until she falls asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>vii.<strong>

She repeats his name, each time different, into sand, into fire, into the sea but she watches as the waves break against the shore and wash it away.


End file.
